An Ode to a Place

Leaving that place was more bitter than sweet. The twenty-hour drive took me east and little by little the scent of salt faded from the air as the cliff-hugged roads leveled into the lonesome, vast, orange highways of the American Southwest. Then, tragically, my poignant road trip dumped me in north Texas where the only identifiable landmark was the maddening web of gray Dallas overpasses. As if to rub salt in the wound, the road spat me out in December. At least during a Texas summer, I could pretend the warm panhandle gusts were the Santa Ana winds, but the winter left me wanting.

The first time I stepped foot in that state, I fell in love. A blasphemous thing for a native Texan to admit, for sure, but its beauty still manages to mesmerize me years later. The sun shines differently there. The air carries a sweet aroma. I am perpetually infatuated with that place, and I say only half-jokingly that I wish to die there. F. B. Silverwood, lyricist of the state’s regional anthem, assures me that I’m not alone in feeling this way. I sing Silverwood’s lyrics rather matter-of-factly: “and I know when I die, I shall breathe my last sigh for my sunny California.”

Silverwood’s “I Love You, California” is a happy tribute. The song carefully lists out each natural wonder: “I love your fertile valleys; your dear mountains I adore. I love your grand old ocean, and I love her rugged shore.” It is, of course, California’s natural beauty and fair weather that receives frequent praise from residents and visitors alike, yet even as the official state song, Silverwood’s anthem remains largely unknown. Instead, California’s most recognizable music is – in stark contrast to Silverwood’s gleeful lyrics – almost haunting. Prominent Southern California bands capture this emotion precisely. “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and “Lost in Hollywood” by System of a Down warn of California’s tempting allure. Their lyrics stress the broken vow of success California makes to her migrants: “They find you, two time you. Say you're the best they've ever seen. You should've never trusted Hollywood.” There is indeed something inherently enthralling about the place. The blissful days juxtapose the cool dark nights. Empty promises of fame and fortune have long lured generations to their demise. But it is The Mamas & the Papas’ “California Dreamin’” and the Eagles’ “Hotel California” that foreshadow the intense yearning I would experience once I was no longer able to drive down those dark desert highways. Three thousand miles east and “still those voices are calling from far away” inviting me to return to the Hotel California.

The circumstances that brought me to California warrant their own story. In brief, my going there was a desperate attempt at throwing myself into the harshness of life and away from the comforts of home and dependence on family; although I succeeded in my endeavor, by the time I left I had unexpectedly developed a passionate dependence on the California landscape. Driving on the Texas roads, I discovered myself troubled by the standstill rush-hour traffic where the only thing to rest my eyes upon was the miles of flat smoggy suburbia. In California, my fear of the road vanished. Marlena Shaw sings through my car’s speakers, putting my feelings into words: “It’s all in the air. You hear it everywhere, no matter what you do, it’s gonna grab a hold on you.” It was to those long drives, embosomed by the fragrant hills, that I willingly imprisoned myself. I experienced my first sip of freedom there, where alone on the open roads through the Mojave, I ventured west through the snow-crowned San Bernardino mountains and south toward the San Diego Bay, as “the winds that ride, on the high tide, whistles a melody.” Spending my weekend days on the coast and my evenings driving though the hills, I lived Don Henley’s lyrics as the cool wind whistled through my hair. By tasting this sweet freedom I was ironically held captive. Returning to the Texas plains I realized I was mentally locked in a room of the Hotel California. I had checked in and forgotten my heart there. In what I can only describe as a state of emotional hypnosis, I checked out, but never truly left.

For a while I tried to convince myself that it was merely the ocean that I missed. The Red Hot Chili Peppers note how the beautiful blue of the Pacific sits west of Highway 1 and “sparkles light with yellow icing, just a mirror for the sun.” I mistakenly credited the Atlantic with the ability to fill the Pacific-sized void I had created after leaving the West Coast and moving to Rhode Island. I was initially charmed by the New England autumn – a season missing in both Texas and California – but soon enough, the golden October skies and picturesque foliage fades. The dreary, wet December wind gusts roll in. I can say without an ounce of exaggeration that during every Providence torrential downpour, I remember the Mama’s and the Papa’s famous lyrics: “I’d be safe and warm if I was in L.A.” The nights become longer and longer in New England, and I can’t help but catch myself daydreaming of my old home. I am burdened by an unending state of limerence for that place, unable to let go of my life there. Again, Silverwood frankly expounds my sentiment: “I love you California; I just can’t help loving you.”